She pushed it in too deeply (foolish bride!)

And made her blood some dewdrops small distil,

PSYCHE AND PAN

Metamorph., Lib. V

THE gentle River, in her Cupid's honour, Because he used to warm the very

wave,

Did ripple aside, instead of closing on her, And cast up Psyche, with a refluence

brave,

Upon the flowery bank,-all sad and sinning.

Then Pan, the rural god, by chance was leaning

Along the brow of waters as they wound,

Kissing the reed-nymph till she sank to ground,

And teaching, without knowledge of the meaning,

To run her voice in music after his Down many a shifting note (the goats around,

In wandering pasture and most leaping bliss,

And as the hoary god beheld her there, The poor, worn, fainting Psyche !knowing all

The grief she suffered, he did gently call Her name, and softly comfort her despair :

'O wise, fair lady, I am rough and rude, And yet experienced through my weary age!

And if I read aright, as soothsayer should,

Thy faltering steps of heavy pilgrimage, Thy paleness, deep as snow

cannot see

we

her wreak

Full vengeance with full force of deity! Yet thou, forsooth, art in my temple here, Touching my scythes, assuming my degree,

And daring to have thoughts that are not fear!'

-But Psyche clung to her feet, and as they moved

Rained tears along their track, tear, dropped on tear,

And drew the dust on in her trailing locks,

And still, with passionate prayer, the charge disproved :—

'Now, by thy right hand's gathering from the shocks

deed

By prayers so moist with tears, and would defend

The poor beseecher from more utter need: But where old oaths, anterior ties,

commend,

I cannot fail to a sister, lie to a friend, As Venus is to me. Depart with speed!'

PSYCHE AND THE EAGLE

Metamorph., Lib. VI

BUT sovran Jove's rapacious Bird, the regal

High percher on the lightning, the great eagle

A cup-boy for his master,-he inclined To yield, in just return, an influence kind;

The god being honoured in his lady's

woe.

And thus the Bird wheeled downward from the track,

Gods follow gods in, to the level low Of that poor face of Psyche left in wrack. 'Now fie, thou simple girl!' the

Bird began ;

'For if thou think to steal and carry back A drop of holiest stream that ever ran, No simpler thought, methinks, were found in man.

What! know'st thou not these Stygian

waters be

Most holy, even to Jove? that as, on earth,

Men swear by gods, and by the thunder's worth,

Even so the heavenly gods do utter forth
Their oaths by Styx's flowing majesty?
And yet, one little urnful, I agree
To grant thy need!' Whereat, all
hastily,

He takes it, fills it from the willing wave,

And bears it in his beak, incarnadined By the last Titan-prey he screamed to have;

And, striking calmly out, against the wind,

Vast wings on each side,—there, where Psyche stands,

He drops the urn down in her lifted hands.

PSYCHE AND CERBERUS

Metamorph., Lib. VI

A MIGHTY dog with three colossal necks, And heads in grand proportion; vast as fear,

With jaws that bark the thunder out

that breaks

In most innocuous dread for ghosts

anear,

Who are safe in death from sorrow: he reclines Across the threshold of queen Proserpine's

By

Dionysiaca, Lib. XLVII

WHEN Bacchus first beheld the desolate And sleeping Ariadne, wonder straight Was mixed with love in his great golden eyes;

He turned to his Bacchantes in surprise, And said with guarded voice,-"Hush! strike no more

Your brazen cymbals; keep those voices still

Of voice and pipe; and since ye stand before

Queen Cypris, let her slumber as she will!

And yet the cestus is not here in proof. A Grace, perhaps, whom sleep has stolen aloof:

In which case, as the morning shines in view,

Wake this Aglaia!-yet in Naxos, who Would veil a Grace so? Hush! And if

that she

Were Hebe, which of all the gods can be
The pourer-out of wine? or if we think
She's like the shining moon by ocean's
brink,

The guide of herds,-why, could she
sleep without
Endymion's breath on her cheek? or if
I doubt

Of silver-footed Thetis, used to tread These shores,-even she (in reverence be it said)

Has no such rosy beauty to dress deep With the blue waves. The Loxian goddess might

Repose so from her hunting-toil aright Beside the sea, since toil gives birth to sleep,

But who would find her with her tunic loose,

Thus? Stand off, Thracian! stand off! Do not leap,

Not this way! Leave that piping, since I choose,

O dearest Pan, and let Athenè rest! And yet if she be Pallas truly guessed..

Her lance is where her helm and aegis-where?'

-As Bacchus closed, the miserable Fair

Awoke at last, sprang upward from the sands,

And gazing wild on that wild throng that stands

Around, around her, and no Theseus there!

Her voice went moaning over shore and sea,

Beside the halcyon's cry; she called her love;

She named her hero, and raged maddeningly

Against the brine of waters; and above,

Sought the ship's track, and cursed the

hours she slept;

And still the chiefest execration swept Against queen Paphia, mother of the

Hid looks beneath them lent her by Persuasion

And every Grace, with tears of Love's own passion.

She wept long; then she spake :'Sweet sleep did come

While sweetest Theseus went. Oh, glad and dumb,

I wish he had left me still! for in my sleep I saw his Athens, and did gladly keep My new bride-state within my Theseus' hall;

And heard the pomp of Hymen, and the call

Of "Ariadne, Ariadne," sung
In choral joy; and there, with joy I hung
Spring-blossoms round love's altar!-
aye, and wore

A wreath myself; and felt him evermore,
Oh, evermore beside me, with his mighty
Grave head bowed down in prayer to
Aphrodite !

Why, what a sweet, sweet dream! He went with it,

And left me here unwedded where I sit! Persuasion help me! The dark night did make me

A brideship, the fair morning takes away;

My Love had left me when the Hour did wake me;

And while I dreamed of marriage, as